The Lost Art

The Gate of Love is narrow,
they say,
just think of all who pass by
but never enter in.
It is made for special meeting,
those few encounters each is given
to walk beneath that glowing lintel,
hand in hand and hand on post
to stroll in that restricted city.
If the object is wrong,
they say,
can the act be any good?

The subject cannot be wrong
and the act is the good.

They laugh, or more often, scoff
that we can imagine loving one
who does nut thunder upon us
as torrent unmanageable.
But should the virtue of the love
lie in that one who is loved,
what need we have of the lover
when any other can as well love?
What if it is I who love,
the lover who acts and forms
the good or ill of the love?
Ah, then wide is the Gate
to that earthly city,
many can enter, and find repose
in her precious streets,
hand in hand not with perfection,
but perfecting every breath
the gaze upon whom
is loved.

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